


Of Corruption and Guilt.

by Ygrain



Series: Maedhros [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Guilt, Leadership, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: The Second Kinslaying, with certain liberties and interpretations of the canon. Part 4 of the Maedhros series.
Series: Maedhros [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082741
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Of Corruption and Guilt.

**Author's Note:**

> dagnir: slayer (degnir: my attempt at plural with vowel mutation) 
> 
> dagnirhoth: pejorative plural, horde of slayers 
> 
> nothrim: family, kindred (class plural) 
> 
> gwarth: traitor (gwairth: my attempt at plural with vowel mutation). Technically, the Fëanorions cannot be considered traitors since they never swore any allegiance to Dior and presumably expressed their “or else” intent quite clearly beforehands, but with a sneak attack at night, by the ones who should be allies in a common cause against Morgoth, I believe the sentiment is quite justified. 
> 
> nossëonehtar: Kinslayer (Quenya: nossë = kin + -o for genitive case + nehtar = slayer). Searching the net, I saw people using only Nossenehtar, without the genitive, but since Quenya is an inflected language, I believe the compound should reflect that kinslayer = slayer OF kin. Feel free to correct me. 
> 
> at: twice (Quenya). No idea where to insert it in the compound, so I added it via a hyphen 
> 
> huil gwista – ignorant bitch (reversed word order) 
> 
> dín: silence 
> 
> Elements of names where I played with the meaning: 
> 
> fael: fair-minded, just 
> 
> bregol: fierce 
> 
> astor: loyalty 
> 
> Everything not specified as Quenya is Sindarin. 
> 
> As usually, any insight into my linguistic mistakes will be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> *************** 
> 
> Shoutouts: 
> 
> The idea of turning counted Kinslayings into epithets comes from Elsane's wonderful work A Story For Twilight, which I cannot recommend enough: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370993 
> 
> A perfectly fitting image of Maedhros at this stage (to a point), by lucife56, can and should be admired here: https://www.deviantart.com/lucife56/art/Maedhros-study2-866166987

“ _Degnir_ _nothrim_!” 

“ _Dagnirhoth_!” 

In the din of the battle, shouts and screams, these words always come through crystal clear. 

_Kinslayers._

Despite all the hopes, all the beliefs that he had held, this is what he is now: _Nossëonehtar-at_. Kinslayer Twice. 

Maedhros used to believe that losing his right hand, the hand that had slain, had been his atonement, and that his left hand would only be used against the servants of Morgoth. That very belief had driven him into reclaiming and surpassing his previous skill, and that skill, so painstakingly honed, now brings death and ruin to kin again. 

Yet, skill or no, Menegroth is a bloodbath. Had its strength not been broken by the Naugrim, its maze of caverns and hallways would become a deathtrap. The fighting is spilling back and forth, on the polished floors slippery with blood and strewn with bodies, through lofty halls and winding passages, lamplit or drowned in the dark, through shouts, screams, weeping, moaning and gasps, and the curses, the curses above all. 

“ _Degnir_ _nothrim_!” 

“ _Gwairth_!” 

Such a fool he had been, soothing himself with sweet lies, lies that allowed him to feel good about himself. The one who atoned. The hero of the battle of Himring, The honourable, reasonable eldest Fëanorion. Not even his mistakes that had led to the disaster of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had made him face his true self without the mercy of any pretext. 

_Nossëonehtar-at._

_Fingon_ _would turn away in revulsion and pain._

But the dead cannot sway the living and Maedhros does not even possess the luxury, not at the moment. A fool he may have been with his false hopes, a leader hesitant towards what had lain ahead, but the obligations are still his. He must fully commit himself to what he has become, or they all die. The Doriathrim defend their home and Lord ferociously; no mercy can be expected, nor deserved. 

No mercy. For what they have done, the wergild must be paid in blood. 

No glitter, no flame of spirit in his eyes. Only death to be dealt, and death to be received. 

************** 

His brothers are all gathered in a chamber adjacent to the throne room, in a gloomy silence. 

Amrod and Amras, sitting next to each other with an empty, haunted look in their eyes. Maglor in the corner, tears constantly streaming down his cheeks. And the other three, side by side, on a large marble table. 

Caranthir in the bloodied armour, pierced by so many blades. 

Curufin with an arrow through his throat, the surprise in his eyes still lingering. 

And Celegorm, his face marred both by the old scar from the Nirnaeth and by the agony of his fatal wound. Unlike Curufin's, his passing was neither quick nor easy, yet Maedhros never managed to reach him in time to at least take him by the hand. 

Yet, that for which they have paid so dearly, was not found in the vaults, nor in the royal chambers, nor on the King's body. 

Leaning by his hand against the table, Maedhros struggles for control. He never wanted this, he tried, Eru knows that he _tried_ , but now he must deal with the consequences as he is the only one still holding together. He cannot give in to despair, he cannot allow the pain and rage to burst out. He is needed, more than ever. 

_There may still be a way. It may still be found_. 

Some Doriathrim have fled, that is for sure. Some were slain in the attempt; those need to be searched. Yet others have been taken captive, and those can be questioned. 

Pushing himself away from the table, Maedhros clenches his remaining hand so hard that it hurts, not to give in to impulses which horrify him, along with the memories they bring. He can stay in the room no longer, unsure what the presence of his brothers, both dead and alive, might compel him to. 

His guards standing outside give him a somewhat alarmed look, so he schools his face into a mask. “Bring the Queen,” he orders, avoiding the sight of Dior's bloodied remains under a coverlet. “Not here, outside.” 

Further in the hallway, there are nooks with stone benches, carved and polished, and miraculously, some are not stained with blood. There he paces, preparing to face a woman whose home he has violated and whose husband's mauled corpse lies only a few steps away. 

_Be reasonable,_ he prays, clinging to yet another frail hope. _Do not be proud, look where pride has gotten you, and us._

_Please_. 

The sound of rushing feet startles him but it is Faeldir, his Captain, approaching him with a look of barely concealed horror. 

Foreboding clutches at his Maedhros's heart like Morgoth's hand. 

“My Lord... ” The man who has never shown fear against overwhelming odds now looks ashen. “The Queen... “ his voice drops. “She is dead.” 

“What?!” Maedhros feels blood retreating from his face, and a terrible thought presents itself, as if whispered into his ear by a voice beyond his reach. “The young princes?” 

Faeldir swallows hard with a dry throat. “Gone. My Lord... you had better come see yourself.” 

Maedhros's head is spinning, and in a rare moment of forgetting himself, he raises the stump to his forehead. “But those are Amras's men on guard duty?” 

“Not any more, my Lord. Lord Celegorm's servants relieved them, claiming to act on your orders...” 

_Celegorm. The sickly glow in his eyes..._

_No. No!_

*************** 

A chamber which might have been cosy, if not for the blood spilt on a carpet of serene colours, and distraught sobs reverberating against the ornamented walls. If looks could kill, the three of them would be dead upon entering, as a woman with a large bruise in her face quickly rises, blocking their path to the body. 

“Must you further defile her with your presence, _nossëonehtari_ ?” she hisses – cousin Artanis's courtesy, undoubtedly, to have introduced _that_ word to the court that had refused to speak Quenya. When planning their attack, it brought Maedhros no small relief to learn that she had left Doriath. 

Narador scowls darkly at the tone but Maedhros ignores the jab: _one should not be offended by the truth, after all_. “How did this happen?” he asks calmly. 

“How?!” the woman scoffs. “Your _dagnirthoth_ came, dragged the boys away and thrust a sword in my Lady's belly, and _you_ play ignorant?” 

“Mind your words, woman, or -” 

Maedhros stops the indignant _ohtar_ with a raised hand. Over the woman's shoulder, he can see the body of the silver-haired Queen who had to die in pain and anguish because her husband had delivered the same blow... _or was it because_ _his_ mother _had delivered a blow even more painful?_

“I will take your word as the truth and not disturb your Lady's remains,” he says softly. “Might she have the Silmaril on her?” 

The woman's eyes gleam with malicious joy. “Is it _gone_ then _?_ Valar be _praised_ -” 

That pushes too far. “Huil gwista _, if it is gone, then all these deaths have been for naught, and more deaths shall follow!_ ” 

The woman spits in his face, and with an angry shout, Narador brings the shaft of his spear down. 

Maedhros and Faeldir react simultaneously but Maedhros is faster, and winces at the vicious strength of the impact on his forearm. His eyes meet Faeldir's horrified glance. Narador's face turns from flushed to pale, and he takes an unsteady step back, pursued by the woman's scornful sneer. 

“Bregolwen, stop,” intervenes a soft voice. The other woman, who has been sobbing by her Lady's side, unsteadily rises. “Lord Maedhros, I beseech you _..._ Do not let the children be harmed...” 

Slowly, he raises his hand to wipe the spittle. ' _We do not harm children'_ , he would tell her, if only he could still be sure, since just a moment ago, he would have claimed “ _we do not harm women”._ And he could also swear a solemn oath to protect the boys like his own, if he wasn't fearing already that this could be yet another oath that he may never be able to fulfill. 

“Did your Lady have the Silmaril on her?” he asks her instead, his lips numb with the realisation that had Narador not acted so rashly, he is unsure what he might have done himself. When she shakes her head in response, he turns to leave, as he feels his self-control dangerously close to slipping. 

Mistaking his move for a rejection of her plea, the woman throws herself at his feet, grasping his hand – the hand no longer gauntleted, and thus not stained with the blood of her kin, not visibly – and he jolts at the touch. Her own hands are also bloodied, as she had tried in vain to staunch her Lady's wound. “I beg of you...spare them, they are mere boys, and the little one -” 

“ _Dín_ _, Melloth!”_

_The little one._ He freezes. 

Realising her mistake, Melloth's eyes brim with tears again. “I _beg_ of you...” she repeats, still holding onto his hand, and her touch is like red-hot iron – worse, in fact, as he can draw the comparison from experience. 

Almost gently, he removes his trembling hand from her grasp. “What are their names?” he asks softly. 

But Bregolwen, her eyes sharp like a lynx on the prowl, answers faster, with sweet venom. “Eluréd and Elurín, and Elwing.” 

_'May they haunt you in your sleep forever',_ he hears. 

_They will,_ _Bregolwen_ _, do not you worry._

Without looking at either woman, he heads out of the room, to avoid the outcome of the turmoil threatening to spill, which would be either embarrassing, or horrifying. 

The closing of the door delivers him from the reveal. 

In the hallway, Celegorm's men in the circle of his own guards provide a welcome distraction, and they cower before the fiery glitter of his eyes. “ _Where are they_?” he asks, very softly, and menacingly. 

The men – those he himself had assigned to Celegorm's service after his own people had stayed behind in Nargothrond – exchange alarmed looks. 

“My Lord... we do not _know_!” 

“Astardil brought us to relieve Lord Amras's men...” 

“... referred to your commands...” 

“... and went inside only with Malgon and Borgil...” 

“... took the boys away....” 

The words blend like a buzz in his head, pounding in his chest and pumping bile into his heart. 

_Astardil. Malgon. Borgil._

Those who had survived the battle of Tumhalad and returned to Celegorm's service, begging his forgiveness for their former disloyalty. 

The reek of death in his mind makes him nauseous. He turns away abruptly, first striding, then running, gasping for air. 

Faeldir catches up with him only at the entrance to the caves. “My Lord Maedhros... what is to be done?” 

He needs to keep breathing the cold air a little longer before he is able to reply. “No further retribution to be taken, by _anyone_ , under _any_ circumstances.” More breaths. “Have the place searched thoroughly, turn it upside down if needed. Inform my brothers of the proceedings, and of my orders. Those are not to be countermanded, no matter what.” 

_No matter what?_

His brothers' pale faces and their unseeing eyes question his decision, and he squeezes his eyes shut, but Celegorm's mouth frozen in a bloody snarl haunts him even behind his closed lids. “Those three... if they are still here, I want them found immediately, and brought to me in bonds. I will deal with them myself.” 

Taking one more deep breath, he opens his eyes to meet Faeldir's, and the Captain nods gravely. Neither would have believed such orders necessary, but with Kinslayers Twice, things can no longer be taken for granted. 

*********** 

Maedhros becomes aware of their approach long before they notice him, unmoving and silent against the silvery trunks, cloaked by the twilight of a dark day. What he sees are not three men on horseback, leisurely returning in their own tracks, but three shadows where light had once shone. 

They pause but briefly, and continue as if they had not a worry in the world – as if the sight of naked steel across his saddle was not an ominous portent. 

“Lord Maedhros,” Astardil rides forward. “This is unexpected – and rather risky, to ride these woods on your own.” 

Faeldir had said the same but Maedhros ignores the undertone. “What have you done with them?” 

Those three exchange glances, and shrug. “Nothing.” 

' _Nothing.'_

_'The winter will do the dirty work for us.'_

_'And what are_ you _going to do about it?'_

The long ride through the chilly woods has done little for his peace of mind, and he can feel the fiery glitter in his eyes coming to life. “Why? _Why_ do this?” 

Slightly nudging their horses apart, as if preparing to flank him, the three regard him as if he was asking the obvious: _not three men, but three shadows, crouching to lurch, and grasping their hilts._

“Did Celegorm order this?” 

Like a beast sensing weakness, Astardil bares his teeth, and Maedhros realizes that he will never know the truth of it, that those three are too far gone, and any further words they might exchange would only serve to further haunt him. They have become beasts, and like beasts, need to be taken down. 

Their swords flash as he raises his, but then hesitates – not out of any concern for himself, though he is one against three, but due to his own role in the events of this fateful night and day. 

Dior's body, hacked beyond recognition after his death. His queen murdered in revenge when protecting her sons. And the face of a friend, acting in a rage he would not have imagined possible. 

Willing or unwilling, this is what he has led his people to, and thus failed them all. 

He lowers and sheathes his sword. “Go,” he commands. “Whatever misguided sense of loyalty may have compelled you to such cruelty, I will not suffer you in my services. Go.” _Live with what you have done. Like I must._

For some reason, this unsettles them more than the threat of an imminent death. “And where are we to go?” cries out Malgon with the shrill of one forced to face himself. 

“I care not. To Morgoth himself, if you will. Or somewhere where you might remember what you once were.” 

Astardil spurs his horse even closer. “And who do _you_ think you are, Maedhros Fëanorion ?” he hisses, his blade still bare in his hand. “Who are _you_ to judge us? You, the very same -” 

“- Kinslayer Twice, yes. But a cold-blooded murderer, I am not.” And he urges his horse past them, past their blades, following the trail leading to the two young children abandoned in the woods. 

*********** 

“Eluréd! Elurín!” 

The woods are silent, but for the piercing wind, and the blue light of his lantern provides neither warmth, nor hope. He had long lost the traces of the light tiny feet on the frozen snow, and his calls evoke no response. 

_And why should they? Would the children not stay hidden, rather than reveal themselves to a terrible giant in an_ _armour_ _still mostly stained with blood?_

“Eluréd! Elurín! Answer me! You will not be hurt!” 

No response comes, ever, throughout the night. No sound but the crunching of ice and snow under the hooves, and rustling of dry beech leaves where the sun had melted the cover. Not even the wind blows any more. All is silent. 

In his head, though, an onslaught of voices never ceases. 

_You shouldn't have stopped_ _Narador_ _. That_ _Bregolwen_ _woman, wasn't she just_ asking _for it? Wouldn't it have been sweet to wipe that smirk off?_

_No. No, it wouldn't. It wouldn't have been right._

_You don't say...Dior had undoubtedly been smirking, as well, when he was reading your letter, and perhaps even when he was gutting your brother. Do you think_ you _would have stopped hacking at his body, seeing Celegorm writhing on the floor? You would have cut him into pieces!_

_No! I wouldn't do that..._

_Lying to yourself again, Maedhros_ _Fëanorion_ _? You know you let_ _Astardil_ _go because you were_ glad _that they did what you wouldn't have had the guts for, killing Dior's bitch and driving his whelps into the woods!_

_No! They are but children, they do not deserve -_

_Children, hmmm... How many might have been killed in the chaos of the attack, what think you? You are well aware that not all those bodies you were stepping over were adult, or armed. You did not care._

_No! That shouldn't have_ _happened..._ _I never wanted that! I never ordered that!_

_And you think that it matters to your victims if they were killed in cold blood, or in the heat of the battle? The only one it matters to is yourself. All you are doing riding these woods_ _is trying_ _to prove something to yourself, to soothe your conscience._

“No!” 

_You took an excuse to flee the place, so that you didn't have to keep looking at all those corpses, and not feel compelled to add some more._

“NO!” 

Dismounting, he makes a few staggering steps until he falls to his knees in the frozen snow. He picks a handful and presses it to his feverish forehead. It melts and streams down his face, like spittle and tears. 

_Lying to yourself again? Closing your eyes to what you do not wish to see? What a relief, to be finally free of_ _Curufin's_ _sharp tongue that would dismantle your hypocrisy! 'Face it,_ Nelyo _...'_

“No...” 

_'…. you love to think of yourself as our better, that is the sole reason why you are doing this...'_

_“No! That is not true!”_

_“And you are rid of Celegorm, as well, of that poison consuming him from within... he was growing over your head, wasn't he? Why weren't you looking out for him? Had you been faster, had you engaged Dior yourself, he would have lived! You are so_ glad _you do not have to deal with what_ he _might have done..._

A new handful but he trembles so badly that the snow slips from his palm. Using his teeth, he peels off the glove and grasps the hard snow with his bare hand till the cold gnaws at his bones. The water drips between his fingers like fresh blood. 

More snow, more frost biting into the flesh, more water, as if it had the power to cleanse that which cannot be washed away. 

_Disgusted with yourself? Then why didn't you get yourself killed when you were so unwilling? You had a perfectly_ _honourable_ _way out; you could have sacrificed yourself instead of Caranthir! You_ knew _your men were pinned, you_ knew _a path needed to be cleared to those archers, so why didn't_ you _cease covering yourself to focus solely on the kill? How_ convenient _that you had to lead..._

A long desperate wail issues to the lightening sky, in the stillness of the frozen woods. 

_Hail, Maedhros_ _Fëanorion_ _, glorious leader. All you lead to is but ruin. All those you lead you fail, time and again. All those deaths were for naught. And more deaths will follow, under_ your _lead._

Silence. 

_*****************_

The day that dawns is dark and gloomy, the sun never rising from behind the clouds. The woods are empty, the surviving Doriathrim hid or fled. 

Leading the tired horse by the reins, Maedhros continues his search. 

From the tumultuous voices clawing at him from within, a single thought emerged with clarity, one that he can believe without any poison of self-hatred and doubt. 

He must keep looking. Fingon would have wanted him to. 


End file.
